Girl on a Tombstone Read online

  But who’s to say I’d live to tell him?

  In waves of glittering black, to foggy gray, to sunshine yellow, and on to ruby red, the auras radiated differently from one person, or creature, to the next. It was like taking a temperature. Charcoal? Reasonable. Sane. Most certainly magical, but to what degree, it was never known. Until sometimes? It was too damn late.

  Dark hues? Black? Blood magic at play. Strong. Dangerous. Scary. Deadly.

  Approach with extreme caution. Handle with care.

  Black auras were always magical, but usually not in a good way. Yet, nevertheless, sane. And yes, Dr. Dark had assured us, evil could be sane.

  I knew all about black auras. After all. Mine was as black as a moonless night in the Ash Lands, a still, spooky place where the only light was from the Dark Horse, our train’s engine. And the only things stirring, were the dead.

  I saw movement once again. An ant. Small, shiny, and made of tin and steel. A burst of sunshine yellow flashed from its tiny body. A manufactured aura. A fake.

  And just before my eyes shut once again, I felt my dry lips quirk a smile.

  Maybe, just maybe, all was not lost, after all.

  “Skye. Wake up. I’m going to move you. Not gonna lie, girl. It’s gonna hurt like crazy.”

  If this was divine intervention, I didn’t want to wake up. It hurt too much. And forget ‘like crazy’. It hurt like holy hell. Plus, I was being nudged awake by something far less than divine.

  I could tell by the smell.

  And it was hardly a miracle if one could judge by the pool of damp, stickiness I was lying in. I could feel there was even more blood than I had remembered before I blacked out. Well, great.

  I had been dreaming that I arrived at my destination. My final one. That would be Hell.

  Nope. No more urban caving, no more hacking buildings, draining, spelunking. I was done. Done with exploring in the name of humanity that didn’t care anymore. If humanity didn’t care anymore, why should I, a too skinny girl with a bad attitude straight from suburbia? And one should not let my friendly stage persona fool them.

  I was not friendly. I was not nice.

  I was broken.

  And I didn’t know if or when I could be fixed. Or at this point, if I even wanted to be.

  In my pain ravished dream, a blood—red, rusted hulk of a locomotive steam engine jolted to a stop. I heard the conductor announce, “Last stop, Skye St John. Hell. And hurry up. They’re expecting you.”

  “Well of course they are,” I yelled over the hiss of steam and screeching of brakes. “You know in some circles, I’m famous.”

  “Yeah? Well welcome to the ring of fire, Babe. You deserve it,” the conductor said.

  “And that? Was uncalled for.” I glared at him.

  “Not caring.”

  “Asshole,” I muttered under my breath.

  He handed me a gas mask. “For your baby blues.”

  I grabbed the ancient metal mask, dodged a spray of sparks from the rails, and frowned at the man. “Don’t you be worrying yourself about my eyes. See?” I pointed to my irises that were so blue they looked like the ocean. That is the ocean before our world went to hell and turned the seas gray. “My eyes are just fine.”

  He shrugged. “No one gives a shit down here. Blue. Brown. Purple. Whatever. Now on the other hand, your soul…”

  I tried to push past him. He stepped in front of me.

  He wore a crisp, navy blue uniform, complete with epaulets, double—breasted brass buttons, and an array of gold snaps and buckles. He sported lethal—looking pointy horns, long black nails, wore a goatee, and wasn’t sweating a drop.

  Not. One. Drip.

  And no, the devil would not be a conductor. Of that I was sure. Had to be a cousin.

  “Don’t call me, Babe.” I avoided looking at his horns, which honestly, just creeped me out.

  “This is Hell,” he said with a shrug. “Guess I can call you anything I want. Babe.”

  I put some muscle in it and shoved past the— what? Man? Beast? Demon? And stepped off into, well, Hell.

  Wow. Talk about steam.

  I felt myself being nudged again. Dream over. And I can’t say I wasn’t glad.

  “Come on. Wake up, Skye. It will only be worse if you don’t.”

  Right. I had serious doubts that anything could make it worse. Once again, I tried to moisten my cracked lips. No luck. Gee, what a surprise. Refusing to open my eyes, I managed a whisper. “Look, I just woke up from Hell, you moron. What could make it worse? Now, let me sleep. Or go away. Your choice.”

  “You’re not there yet, Babe,” the familiar voice answered with extreme emphasis on ‘Babe.’ “But you’re close.”

  That did it. I slowly blinked opened my eyes. In Hell or not I hated being called Babe. I was no one’s Babe, not in this life or any other. I narrowed my eyes and glared into the pink irises of The Bone Man.

  Who really wasn’t a grown man at all. He was more like a kid. Albeit, an extremely tall one. Not much younger than me, he’d be hitting eighteen in six months.

  The six—foot—seven figure bent over me frowning at my knife wound. He wore his black top hat, reserved for shows or funerals, which was so not a good sign, because our show was over what? Had to be hours ago. Or was it days? I honestly didn’t know anymore. I could only hope the hat wasn’t sported for a funeral. You know. Like mine.

  The midnight velvet top hat bore stark contrast to his stunning, ankle—length hair. Born with albinism, his snow—white hair, sprinkled with turquoise glitter from the show, made his locks look like liquid ice. His hair had never been cut. And now with the infusion of magic in our world, it never could be.

  Magic hit us all in unusual, odd ways. For me it was the disappearance of freckles across the bridge of my nose. And now my once brown eyes, the same color as my father’s, had turned forever blue. And for The Bone Man? Well he would never have to spend money in some rail—side barbershop, or worry about a bad hair day again.

  It wasn’t his albinism that had attracted Dr. Dark to The Bone Man. It wasn’t his hair, his height, or eyes. It was, like all of us, his powerful magic that sealed his admittance into the Academy. But I had always suspected that Dr. Dark would have welcomed him aboard anyway, just to keep him safe. The Bone Man was now a novelty, a rare curiosity, and in our broken, fucked up world, they had been tracked and hunted, almost to extinction.

  And I had never stopped thanking Dark for finding him. The Bone Man was my best friend. And, not being the trusting type, I just didn’t have a lot of those. In fact? Only one. And here he was.

  Saving my sorry ass as usual.

  The hat added to his already impossible height. He wore his favorite nose—ring, embedded with a single blue topaz. Slices of moonlight scattered around us as the light caught and danced off the gemstone.

  I should have been relieved. Salvation might be at hand. The Bone Man had found me. Instead? I was pissed. Being pulled out of my cocoon of unconsciousness was not pleasant. Far from it.

  Still? My reaction? Not logical I know. Must be the blood loss. Or maybe just my natural demeanor— the one that always looks for a fight. Yeah, I was the defensive type. You know, the kind of girl with a five—hundred—pound chip on her shoulder. The chip had been there a long time. I started carrying it around on the night my family had been slaughtered.

  In front of me.

  On my fifth birthday.

  The night my family had ventured out of the burbs, and visited the city. Who knew the rotting dead had a thing for Cincinnati? Hell. It was probably the zoo. Who puts a damn zoo in the middle of a city anyway?

  “Hey. Babe? You with me?” Another nudge. Firmer. Sharper.

  He called me ‘Babe.’ Which he knew I damn well hated. He did it to get a rise out of me. To wake me up. If I couldn’t play the diva with him, then who? And, hey if anyone deserved a bit of drama tonight, it was me. After all, with the bleeding still coming on strong, it could be my last chance to
play the part. And I was good at it.

  “What makes you so sure I’m not on my way to heaven?” I tried for genuine diva attitude but my voice sounded weak, raw. I hated it.

  “Because, Skye,” The Bone Man said as he straightened to his full height. “You’re sins and mine? Not so far apart. And the only ride waiting for people like us?” He twirled his finger spiraling it toward the ground. “Is straight down.”

  I wasn’t going to admit it, but The Bone Man had a point. We both had our long list of sins, like it or not.

  I squinted past The Bone Man’s narrow shoulders at his sidekick, Phil.

  Well, that explained the smell.

  3

  The zombie was chewing on a chicken that still had feathers on it. And a beak. And feet. A fresh kill, raw and bleeding. Oh, just yum. Even after more than a decade, I still found it hard to watch a zombie eat. Still, better the chicken than me.

  “People?” I raised a weak arm and pointed at Zombie Phil. “I don’t think he counts. At least not anymore.”

  Without a backward glance toward the zombie, The Bone Man knelt and pressed his pristine white handkerchief into my belly wound. I tried not to scream. I really did. It didn’t work.

  Shaking his head, The Bone Man slid his long skeletal arms underneath me. As he shifted my body to a better angle, I fought the urge to throw up. He was right. It hurt like crazy. Plus, a whole bunch of other ‘colorful’ adjectives. I gasped. The Bone Man raised a knowing pierced eyebrow. If I could have, I would have punched him. I hated that, I—told—you—so look.

  “When are you going to get over your prejudice toward zombies, Skye?”

  I knew The Bone Man was trying to divert me from my pain. It wasn’t working.

  “You forget. They’re good for business,” he added.

  Suddenly, a metal file cabinet creaked open, groaning above me. It started to roll, opening. These were not your average file cabinets that held a decade of taxes. No, these were long and narrow and had once held the bodies of the dead. I was in a morgue after all.

  Great.

  As Dr. Dark would say before the curtain went up, the natives were getting restless.

  “That’s creepy as all hell,” The Bone Man said as he reached for me.

  “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Skye.”

  “Pick what,” I said in a whisper.

  “Places to die.”

  I couldn’t argue that.

  Propping me against him, he reached into the pocket of his wool trench coat and sprinkled a handful of black ants around his booted feet. The tiny mechanical insects sprang to life and formed two straight lines in front of us. Their antennas twitched and began to glow a pale yellow, lighting a pathway before us. They stood in perfect formation, ready to march.

  The Bone Man straightened to stand once more, this time taking me along with him. My view of the world changed as I went airborne, from slab to skyscraper.

  “Phil was human once,” The Bone Man continued. “And when he fully turns, he’ll be simply Dead and Done. Just like the rest of ‘em.”

  “He’s close enough.” I said as I watched Phil munch on the chicken foot like a pretzel at happy hour. “Maybe we send him now.”

  “Let’s not. Come on, Skye. He’s a bona fide attraction. Packs the house.”

  “You used to say I packed the house.” I tried to give him a fake pout, but my cracked lips wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Yeah. Well, that’s before we turned into the land of the shuffling, rotting dead.”

  “That’s a relief,” I said. “Thought you might be thinking I was getting old or something. Figured I’d have to kick your butt.” It hurt to talk. But it kept the fear at bay. And now with the blood still seeping from my belly wound, I needed to talk. To hurt. If it hurt, I was still alive and nowhere near death or Hell. Yeah. Hurting was good.

  “Forget it, Skye.” You still pack ‘em in. It’s just hard to compete with a guy as good—looking as Phil.” We both looked over at the zombie. Chicken feathers stuck out of what was left of his nose.

  I shook my head. “So gross.”

  The Bone Man laughed. “Well what do you expect? I forgot his napkin.”

  “Again,” I added. “But then really? What’s the use? He’d just—”

  “Eat it,” we said in unison. I stifled a belly laugh. It hurt too much to even attempt it.

  “And as for kicking my butt, girl? Well I hate to disappoint you, but no way can you reach it. Not even on your tiptoes. You’re all of what? Five—one—ish?”

  “Five—three,” I paused. “And a half. Let’s just call it five—four.”

  “Ah, there’s my girl. She’s back. Stretching the truth as always.”

  “Only when necessary.”

  “And when it suits you. You’re five—two. If even.” He smiled down at me. But the smile couldn’t mask the worry written in his dramatic, pale eyes.

  Holding me securely in his arms, he turned toward Phil, just as the zombie pulled the leg off the carcass with his teeth. Teeth, The Bone Man had personally filed into sharp, lethal points. Better for the show he’d told me. Called it, special effects. Still. I didn’t see the point, if you can forgive the pun.

  When Phil changed completely, and he would, his teeth would sharpen all on their own. Then we would all enjoy the ‘special effects’ up close and personal. I turned my head away from the zombie and tapped down a shiver.

  I figured Phil had about four months before his change into total monster became permanent. That’s when his tastes would do a 180 degree turn toward the bizarre. And toward the lethal. He wouldn’t be satisfied with raw chicken anymore. And no, he wouldn’t become a vegetarian either. He’d acquire a more, should I say, ‘human’ taste.

  I looked away as he licked his blue lips and tried to remind myself that the change into complete, 100%, chomping, chewing, zombie was still months off.

  When I was five, the last of the huge atomic blasts caused an earthquake that left the earth’s surface torn beyond repair. Gaping crevices, cracks and craters yawned across our planet. Gas and fire and brimstone straight from the gates of Hell, spewed from our angry doomed core.

  That night? Our dead began to walk.

  And bite.

  And infect.

  And now, more than a decade later, we had learned to deal with our curse, as much as any society could deal with something as terrifying and unnatural as the walking, rotting, dead.

  There were three distinct phases after the initial zombie nip. Or bite. Or a chomp and chew combo.

  We called phase one: Disbelief, Denial and Damned. The three D’s. It was a short phase. It lasted only a day. Two if you were unlucky. No one needs to dwell on a future of living gray that long.

  Phase two, the longest phase, we called: You’re Ugly. You’re Rotting. You’re History. Almost.

  Cruel? I’m not gonna lie. Yes.

  Mean? Yeah. Maybe. Who am I kidding? Definitely.

  But the zombie’s mind is mostly gone by now. All human emotions, memories? Gone. But since this phase lasts the longest, about eight months, we came up with it as a reminder that we aren’t dealing with anything human anymore. We had to let them go.

  So that leaves the shortest phase of all. Phase three. And this is when the bite that infects comes in. The bite that will end you.

  Zombies are like rabid dogs; they’ll turn on you. Always. No exception. The eight—month honeymoon is over. This is the phase when they get hungry. Really hungry. And only one thing is on their very limited menu. That would be you.

  Phase three is called: Dead and Done. That’s it. Just Dead and Done. Because turning the big three in captivity means instant decapitation, dismemberment, heart—stomping, brain—burning. Whatever. Some of the above. All the above. It didn’t matter. It was a scene I avoided at all costs.

  So that’s it.

  Dead and Done.

  No more zombie. Unless…unless they escaped.

  A familiar shiver ran through my
body as I watched Phil. Zombies were here to stay. They had become lucrative. Profitable. There were whispers of more being made all the time. On purpose. If I hadn’t already felt sick, that thought alone would have gotten me there in a hurry.

  I watched as chicken blood dripped down Phil’s gray pockmarked skin, crimson drops splashing on the concrete floor. My stomach lurched as I fast forwarded to what Phil would become. Ugh. He did seem to be drooling more than ever.

  The Bone Man moved me once more in his arms adjusting the balance. “You’ve got your blade, right?” I whispered to him looking at Phil. I knew Phil was well into phase two. He still had time, as The Bone Man liked to say, ‘to perk.’ Still…

  “Never without it. You know that. Now stop with the hating on Phil. Save your energy for something positive.”

  “Like?”

  “Like staying alive.”

  “Yeah. I’ll get right on that,” I said trying to make my voice stronger, steadier. “But I think Hell is for zombies. Guaranteed. And if Phil’s there? I’m not going.”

  “Get over it, Skye. You know Phil doesn’t have the golden admission ticket. He’s soulless. You worry about the damnedest things. Besides. After all these years? Zombies are pretty much here to stay. Just part of our scarier—than—hell—fucked—up—world.”

  “Language,” I said.

  “You taught me.”

  I shut up. Hard to argue with the truth.

  The Bone Man gripped me tighter and my bruised ribs screamed in protest. I groaned in agony.

  “Zombies.” I said through clenched teeth. “Never a part of my world. Never.”

  Zombie chain—gangs trained to work on the rails and sent out into the Ash Lands, that barren, dusty, deadly, rancid land between cities, went missing. Fences from the zombie reservations broke. Zombies were stolen.

  There was the occasional sideshow like ours. Dr. Dark’s Troupe had the ‘legal’ gray papers to bring the zombie to the public. For educational purposes. But others? Not so much. Zombies disappeared from shows and were traded on the black market. Or should I say the gray market. And accidents continue to happen.